


Two Layers Deep

by UnrelentingHost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1st person, Conductor of light, Ignores season 3 and 4, John is Beautiful, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Season 2, lyrical, sherlock POV, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnrelentingHost/pseuds/UnrelentingHost
Summary: I was in Instanbul when I got it; just a tiny little collection of letters on the inside of my right forearm. It was a little over a year into my self-exile and I had been pondering over my decision for months by that point. It wasn't exactly a thoughtful, objective, conscious decision; it was a need, and I caved.So I walked into an insignificant tattoo parlour at the edge of the city and asked for three small but infinitely significant words to be etched into my skin.Conductor of light.





	Two Layers Deep

**Author's Note:**

> I recently got a tattoo out of homesickness and this idea sparked into existence and refused to leave me until I wrote it down.

I was in Instanbul when I got it; just a tiny little collection of letters on the inside of my right forearm. It was a little over a year into my self-exile and I had been pondering over my decision for months by that point. It wasn't exactly a thoughtful, objective, conscious decision; it was a need, and I caved.

So I walked into an insignificant tattoo parlour at the edge of the city and asked for three small but infinitely significant words to be etched into my skin.

_Conductor of light._

I chose a nondescript font, for the very meaning of the words were more important than the look of them.

It helped. Every time I felt the calling of the needle, a desire to give in, to just stop existing, I'd think of those words. I'd rub my arm and remind myself, ground myself.

Sometimes I just needed a reason to go on.

And it wasn't just the sight of the words that were comforting, it was the knowledge that they were there. I needed this. A part of John, now a part of me.

It was not like a permanent marker, simply resting on the top of my skin, ultimately fading away as my skin cells died and got replaced by new ones. This was ink, pure ink, pushed down through my Epidermis and deep into my Dermis where it would reside for the rest of my life.

A little discreet piece of John.

-

I didn't think I'd ever go back; back to John. It didn't feel real. Suddenly I'm sitting in my kitchen at 221B and John is there typing away slowly on his laptop.

I adjust the focus of my microscope slightly and the red blood cells I'm studying jump into sharp focus. I'm aware of John. So aware.

His typing stalls, chair creaks. Groan. He's stretching. Now walking over. I try to focus on the deformed cell to the left of the big one.

John walks into the kitchen, he brushes against my left shoulder on his way to the kettle. He stalls by the kettle and I fiddle with my focus pull even though I don't need to. The water runs and John huffs. He's not used to this either.

The kettle clicks on and I feel John's gaze on the back of my neck. The damaged cell is now drifting away from the big one. The kettle is making noises now, and I feel John's attention waver away from me. I tug my cuffs up my forearms because I'm suddenly feeling very warm. I wonder if one boiling kettle can drastically alter the temperature in a 16m2 kitchen.

“Tea, Sherlock?”

John is asking if I want tea. It's a bit too warm for tea, but it's John's so I hum and try to busy myself. Must look normal.

I grab the slide from out of my microscope and put it on the side. I reach for my next specimen, saliva sample from a frozen corpse, and slide it in place. John is staying very still now.

I thought he was making tea?

He does this sometimes. He catches me doing something completely normal and he freezes. I understand. I do it too. It's those moments that remind me of before. It makes me uncomfortable so I adjust my focus again and start identifying bacteria.

The victim had travelled from Asia only 12 hours before their death. I can recognize bacteria found in South-East Asia, although that could be the result of illegally imported cuisine. I must double check that.

The kettle has boiled and shut itself off, but John is still just staring at me. I can feel it like it's a physical thing, but I know for a fact because I am listening to his breathing and deducing his posture. It's odd. I wonder if he's aware that he has now been lost in the moment for a 145% longer than he usually does.

“Sherlock?”

Something is definitely wrong now. I hope he's not having a stroke because I can't save him from a stroke. I can't reach into his brain and remove a blood clot. I wish I could.

I'm slightly alarmed now, so I shrug as a response because John hasn't said anything else.

“What...”

Now he is unable to finish sentences. Likelihood of stroke going steadily up and I calculate the ambulance response time for this time of day. 13 minutes.

“What's that?”

Is he taking interest in my saliva sample? Likelihood of stroke down 5%.

“Saliva.” I hope my answer jolts him out of his human glitch.

“On your arm.”

I am 98% sure the saliva has not transferred to my arm, but I check anyway. A quick glance; and my world stops spinning.

_Conductor of light._

The hair on the back of my neck bristles and my stomach rolls. My left eyelid feels tingly and the likelihood of me having a stroke rises 35%.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Automatically, I look at John. That's a mistake.

He's looking me in the eyes now, and I notice his breath growing steadily more normal. He is calming down and I don't understand why because now I'm the one on the verge of a panic attack.

I should say something, but he's holding me captive with his steady gaze. I feel my lower lip quiver as my mouth fights my brain to produce an answer to John's impossible query, but nothing happens.

Mouth and brain cancel each other out and I'm left sitting here, slightly haunched over my microscope, looking up at John's perfect eyes through my lashes.

“It's fine, if it is.”

John is trying to calm me down, I know that I should let him, but my body is stubbornly locked in the fight or flight response.

“Just calm down, Sherlock.”

I'm way ahead of you, John, but at the same time a lap behind.

“I just don't understand.”

I feel myself getting more and more control over myself. Time to decide how to respond. I can't pretend nothing happened. Not now.

Detachment it is, then.

I allow myself to disassociate and turn back to my microscope. I force my mouth and throat to move. It's difficult.

“It's a tattoo, John. Ink embedded in my dermis. You're a doctor, don't play dumb.”

I don't think I've fooled him. He's most likely rolling his eyes at me, because he's shifting his weight like he does whenever I exasperate him. I must distract him.

“Sherlock-”

“I thought you were making tea?”

He huffs at this; he's aware of my tactics. He knows me too well by now.

He turns around despite all that and pours the cooling water into two mugs. I don't know what I'm feeling now. He's making me tea, but he always makes me tea, even when he's angry with me. What can I deduce about his state of mind now?

He eludes me.

My wonderful John. My interesting John. My forgiving John.

I am so glad for him, which in turn makes me terrified of him.

I've known for a long time that I love him, and now the possibility of him knowing that I love him makes me ill.

A shiver runs down my spine as he puts a steaming mug down in front of me. My fingers tremble on the focus pull. John sits down across from me; a conversation looms on the horizon.

Why is he doing this? It's not like him to talk about this. It's just one of the changes my absence has caused.

“Look, Sherlock-”

He begins, but stalls a bit. He twirls his mug and I hold my breath. The silver lining is that neither of us is likely having a stroke.

“When you were gone, I- well, I wasn't in a good place.”

John's voice has a new quality to it now. I'd be enjoying this moment if what he's saying isn't making me feel like my insides were blinking in and out of existence. I wish I had realized how my apparent death would affect him before I left.

John is looking at me like he knows what's going through my mind. He probably does. He's smarter than he looks, after all.

“It's fine.”

Why does he keep saying that?

“You've explained your reasons and I've learned to forgive, but-”

Now he looks down into his mug. He hasn't had any of his tea yet. It's just sitting there, right in front of him, untouched. Like me.

“Those two years weren't fun for you, were they?”

He's asking me a direct question. He's also looking me directly in the eye.

“No.” My voice feels odd, like sand against the soft linings of my vocal cords.

“I know you don't like to talk about it, but I would very much appreciate you explain this to me in your own words. Just so I don't assume or misunderstand anything. Okay?”

John seems calm and collected. I don't know how he does it, because right now I feel like I'm watching myself from high above. I'm not sure I can connect with my body in this moment.

I flex my fingers on the focus pull. They respond. Good.

Is this what it's supposed to feel like? Because, surely, this is the moment where he finds out. I hope he doesn't leave right away.

He's looking at me with his big, indigo eyes. #143d66, to be exact. They're beautiful.

I need to pull myself together. I owe him that, at least.

“John.”

That is all that I manage. I shake my head a twitch and detach myself from my microscope. It's in the way, so I push it aside.

Now what?

I gently place my arm on the table between us and turn it over so the inside faces the ceiling.

_Conductor of light._

I don't feel nearly as brave as this move should demand.

John looks down now. Down, at my arm. At his essence that marks my skin.

It feels a bit easier, now that it's all out in the open. Now that his eyes aren't piercing into my soul.

“It was for comfort.”

I surprise myself by my honesty.

I surprise John as well, it seems, because he looks up at me and his eyes are impossibly round. I can see his left hand inch forwards a bit and twitch slightly.

“Can I?”

He's asking if he can touch. I'm sure of it. 76% sure, that is. I nod.

His left hand crawls slowly through the air and his index and middle fingers touch down lightly on my wrist. My breath hitches and John's fingers inch forwards until they are resting against the middle of my forearm. On his words.

_Conductor of light._

“When did you get this?”

“Istanbul.”

My reply is instantaneous. He's got me on a hair trigger.

“I asked when?”

My mistake. I'm used to refer to time by location when it comes to that period of my life, but of course John doesn't know that. How could he? He wasn't there.

And wasn't that just the point?

“21st of September, 2015.”

His fingers are stroking my skin. Circles. They go in circles. He's feeling it through his fingertips like Braille.

“Is this okay?”

Thoughtful John. Ever cautious, my John.

I nod again; don't want him to think it's not. He sighs at that and brings forth his whole hand. Not just his fingertips now, but his whole hand resting on my arm. His thumb raking back and forth over my skin, bringing so much warmth.

I feel the need to divulge. I don't understand why, but I'm not afraid any more. Well, 68% less afraid.

“I wasn't in a good place either,” I begin, and he looks up at me again. It nearly throws me off. He is so beautiful. “It was difficult at the best of times and I wanted... needed you with me. But you couldn't be there, obviously, and it's not your fault. Never your fault, John.”

His eyes are sparkling now. Moisture. He's moved by my words. This is a good sign, I think.

“I didn't expect to return, to come back to London. Back to you. So I thought I'd get away with this.”

I can't believe I'm talking about this with him. Do I tell him?

“I couldn't get your name, of course. That would have been dangerous for both of us. I got the next best thing.”

I feel heat rising to my face, pooling in my cheeks. The things he does to me.

“Conductor of light.”

John's voice is soft. It isn't a question.

“Yes, my conductor of light.”

I might as well have said it. The words. Any idiot off the street could have seen the sentiment radiating from me. John is still. So very still. I hope he hasn't forgotten how to breathe. One of us needs to remember.

“I'm sorry I called you a machine.”

The moisture in John's eyes has gathered together into tears, and one falls now. It lands on his cheekbone and starts its descent down his face. It's drawn to his lips and I watch as it slips into the creek of his mouth.

John squeezes my arm gently, and I cover his hand with mine. I'm not thinking of consequences. I just react. Like an automaton. A machine.

“You are the most human, human being.”

He says it like it's something that has been said before. I feel warmth spreading through my very being. It's not physical, not really, but his words warm me.

I should tell him. We are, after all, just sitting here in our kitchen. In our flat. Our home.

Why not?

He seems receptive. At least in the moment.

And he deserves to know.

“John, I am going to say something now.” He nods at this. Receptive. “I hope you won't mind, given the situation.”

John nods again and I swallow nothing. These are crossroads, as I understand them. This moment.

“I love you.”

I force myself to keep eye contact. It does not bode well to look away at a moment like this.

John places his right hand on my left, which is covering his left, which covers my left arm, and gently pries it off. He removes his left as well and my skin feels suddenly cold. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands up. I can't help but watch him as he stands for a moment.

I notice my heart is beating furiously. I wonder when that happened. I dare not move.

John turns, but he doesn't walk away, instead he walks around the table to stand next to me. I twist my torso to face him and look up. Search his eyes. Am I breathing?

He smiles now. Just a small smile. A fond smile.

An abrupt burst of hope springs into life somewhere inside my chest cavity.

John leans down and draws me in. He's kissing me. We're kissing.

His lips are soft and he smells divine. His hands grasp each side of my face and he breathes. It's a deep life sustaining breath. My hands find his arms and I cling to his plush jumper.

He pulls away and I open my eyes to look at him. I don't remember closing them in the first place, but the evidence tells me I must've done. He is so close. He is so beautiful.

“I love you too.”

 


End file.
